


Hush

by janescott



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-11
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink_bingo prompt fill: silence. The real meaning of staying quiet on the tour bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by casey270 (thank you!)  
> Disclaimer: These boys do not belong to me

They never talk about it. It sits between them, always, like a silent, creeping shadow on a bright day, but they never take it out to examine it in bright light.

It – whatever "it" is – exists only at night – in the dark; where they can't look each other in the eye.

Tommy doesn't know whether that means they can't lie to each other; or whether it means they would find it too easy.

But they never talk about it. And he never knows when it's going to happen. Post-show; when they're all running on fumes and adrenaline – it happens then. A scorching-hot hand on the back of Tommy's neck. Long enough for Adam to dig his fingernails into the soft skin. Long enough for Tommy to have to stop, because his whole body suddenly feels fluid; like he's going to collapse right where he is, and he has to lean back for one silent moment; feeling Adam's solid warmth behind him.

The whole exchange - like always - takes no more time than a few drawn-in breaths, but Tommy nearly drops his bass, because it's been _so long_, and Tommy never knows from one day to the next – from one show to the next – when he'll feel that hand on his neck again.

He stops and leans against a wall, watching Adam and the rest of the band and the dancers scatter to the tiny dressing rooms;, getting ready to face the fans waiting outside. The palm of Tommy's hand slips on his bass, sliding up the neck and catching near the top.

He breathes out, once, waiting for his heart to stop triphammering. When he thinks he can walk again, he heads into the dressing room he's sharing with Monte and LP and David, vaguely waving off shouted, good-natured questions as he ducks into the tiny bathroom, taking a five minute shower, biting down on his bottom lip, and just – not thinking.

He's on auto-pilot as he fixes his makeup, signs autographs and snags a beer from somewhere – the neck of the bottle a cold, welcome shock against his burning skin. The air is hot and close and Tommy knows it's not going to be any better on the bus. He also knows that he's not going to care.

Finally they're rounded up by Lane; by the tour manager, and Tommy quietly gets on the bus, heading to Adam's room in the back without looking at anyone. There's speculation and gossip about them, he knows, but if they can't examine what this is in daylight, how is he supposed to answer the questions he can see in Cam's eyes, or in the heavy hand Monte sometimes lays on his shoulder?

It's just ... better not to see. Or hear.

He closes the door behind him; the humid and heavy air in the bus making his clothes stick to his skin and he strips them off, fast, the silence feeling as heavy as the air. He lays down on the bed and stares up at the curved roof of the bus, trying to match his swirling thoughts to the silence around him

It almost works. He rolls to his side and fumbles in Adam's bag for supplies, tossing them on the bed before lying back again, spreading out his arms and legs to try and find fading cool spots on the sheets. He's still lying like that when Adam comes in a few minutes later, taking in the scene.

Tommy feels his heart speed up again, and he bites down on his bottom lip out of habit; already stifling the noises he can feel at the back of his throat. Sometimes he thinks they're all going to come out at once.

Other times he thinks they're going to choke him.

He watches as Adam strips off his own clothes and climbs on to the bed, his eyes intent on Tommy's mouth even as he picks up the lube, and suddenly Tommy's so hard, he can't think properly, the synapses in his brain misfiring already. He bites down harder on his bottom lip and curls his hands into fists in the sheets, the cotton turning hot against his palm.

Nothing in this room is meant to soothe and all he can do is watch, and try and keep the noises building in his blood from spilling out.

Adam's completely silent; frowning in concentration as he circles Tommy's hole with one slick finger. It's cold, in contrast to the baking heat of the room, and Tommy can't suppress a shudder as the bus suddenly roars to life, heading for the next town; the next venue; the next show.

Adam slides his free hand up Tommy's throat, his eyes tracking the movement, and Tommy goes completely still; the same, fluid feeling from backstage flooding his limbs as Adam's hand slides up over his jaw, his chin, covering his mouth. Adam's hand is warm and damp, and tastes like salt.

Sometimes, in the dark, with Adam pushing into him, and breathing shallow and quiet into Tommy's ear, the taste of Adam's hand is the only thing Tommy has left to hold on to.


End file.
